


Long Awaited

by lavenderblossoms



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belly Kink, Body Worship, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fat Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt Unlearns His Ableism, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Talks About Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Insecurity, M/M, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Post Time of Contempt, Reunions, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderblossoms/pseuds/lavenderblossoms
Summary: It's been six years since Jaskier last saw Geralt, and success in Oxenfurt hasn't gone to his head, but his waistline.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	Long Awaited

**Author's Note:**

> please check the tags so you know what you're getting into!

Six years. That’s how long it’s been since Jaskier last traveled the Continent with Geralt. In truth, that’s how long it’s been since he’s traveled much of anywhere, aside from within the city of Oxenfurt itself.

When he first received the letter from the Academy inviting him to make his occasional guest lectures a more permanent fixture of the university, he felt like he was tearing himself in two. How could he choose between his love for Geralt and his love of teaching? His career would continue either way, but in two very different forms, and it was in his hands to decide what shape the future would take.

In the end, the choice was partially made for him. Geralt’s duties increasingly turned from hunting monsters to protecting Ciri, a task which seemed to get more dangerous by the day. It also required absolute secrecy, which meant Jaskier’s supply of song material concerning the White Wolf soon ran dry.

Jaskier would have done anything in his power to help Ciri, and, by default, Geralt, but his skills brought precious little to the table in this case.

So, he went to Oxenfurt.

And he loves it. The city feels like home in a way no other place ever did, familiar but endlessly full of surprises, welcoming, designed as though with all his desires in mind—music, good company, fascinating conversation, food and drink. He loves teaching even more than he’d expected; as a full professor, he gets to watch students progress year after year, grow and experiment and launch their careers. And he still gets to perform; in addition to playing alongside his students, there are dozens of inns always happy to welcome a bard, especially one so well known.

He just misses Geralt. In six years, fate has never granted them a visit face-to-face, though Geralt has gotten better and better at writing regularly. Jaskier never feels forgotten, but he’s still lonely. It’s different without Geralt’s voice and face and touch.

Jaskier has only one reason not to regret Geralt’s absence, and he knows that reason is both vain and silly. Success in Oxenfurt hadn’t gone to his head, but his waistline. Not just a little bit, either. He winces at the thought of Geralt poking fun at him for it.

It isn’t all that surprising, in hindsight. Following Geralt around, he would walk for miles each day carrying most of his worldly possessions, often trekking through difficult terrain. They ate what they could afford, which sometimes wasn’t much, and he worked off any calories he didn’t burn while walking at night in Geralt’s bed. Now, in Oxenfurt, he is almost invariably sedentary, he has money to spare, and the opportunities for overindulging in rich fare and ale are plentiful. He isn’t getting any younger, either.

When, just after his first term as a professor, he’d had to purchase several new sets of clothes, he’d scarcely thought about it. Of course he’d gain a bit of weight as he settled into his new life. Besides, his wardrobe needed updating to keep up with the latest fashions. Twenty-odd pounds made little difference in the long run.

The problem was, it hadn’t slowed down—quite the reverse. Every year, at least, and more often than not once a term, he either had to visit a tailor to have his trousers adjusted or face the matter head-on and buy entirely new clothes. He no longer knows how much he weighs and had stopped looking at his measurements years ago, but he’s fairly sure that he’s now pushing triple his original weight. He’d been but a slender little thing when he first ran into Geralt in Posada.

It hadn’t done his reputation any harm. In the cities, Oxenfurt and Novigrad especially, weight equated wealth and fortune. Particularly at first, if anyone made any comment about his body at all, it was meant as a compliment to his artistic success. But, as jokes about his _meteoric_ rise became more and more frequent, Jaskier can’t help wondering what Geralt would think of him.

He doesn’t think Geralt would be dramatic about it. Geralt isn’t so petty as that. But he might well be disappointed, especially if his attraction to Jaskier had already faded in the interim. It has been six years, after all, and Geralt is a witcher. Jaskier knows all too well how much of his worth he attaches to his own body. Their friendship will survive whatever Jaskier looks like, he’s certain, but he feels less sure of the rest of their relationship. The days of squeezing next to Geralt in a bed made for one are definitely long gone.

Still, he does little to alter his habits, attending just as many banquets, frequenting just as many taverns, and spending just as much time behind a desk. He doesn’t much see the point of doing otherwise, since it would take quite a spectacular transformation at this point for him to resemble anything like the Jaskier of six years ago.

The end of autumn term, when he’s stressed from his teaching demands, driven even further indoors by the encroaching cold, and too busy to attend to his wardrobe with his usual care, is always the worst time of year. So, of course, that’s when Geralt shows up unannounced, looking just as good as he ever did. Jaskier opens the door, expecting a student with one final assignment, and finds Geralt in all his lean-muscled, amber-eyed splendor. He has an impressive new scar over his left eye, which makes Jaskier a little sad but does nothing to detract from his beauty.

“Jaskier. Hi.”

Gods, can his voice really sound like that? After six years, Jaskier was sure he had imagined how weak in the knees it can make him. He’d found the timbre and pitch of Geralt’s voice exquisite from the moment he first spoke, but now there are years and years of fond memories layered on top of the sound itself.

“Geralt.” It feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. “You’re here. How—”

Before he knows it, Geralt’s arms are around him and his face is buried in the witcher’s shoulder. Geralt smells so familiar—woodsy and metallic and warm, all at once—that it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes. He’s less embarrassed by that than he is by the way his belly is squeezed tightly between them or the way Geralt’s arms only go three-quarters of the way around him. He used to fit so easily in Geralt’s embrace.

He can’t help the startled noise that escapes his throat when Geralt turns his head, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s cheek. Immediately, Geralt pulls back.

“Was that—” His brows draw together. “Are you—?”

“It was fine,” Jaskier reassures him. “You surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t even know you were coming. Where’s Ciri?”

“With Yen. Even I don’t know where, by now. We weren’t planning to split up until yesterday—they portalled out this morning.”

Jaskier frowns. “Is everything all right?”

“No. Not really,” Geralt admits. “But they’re safe, for now. And it means I have some time. It’s best if I draw the people tracking Ciri away from her.”

Jaskier reaches out automatically to squeeze his arm. “Well, that’s something, at least. That you’re here, I mean. It’s good to see you, Geralt. I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” His hand brushes against the swell of Jaskier’s hip.

Instinctively, Jaskier turns out of the way.

“Well, no point in hanging around in the doorway,” he says to cover the awkward moment. “Let’s go in.”

Geralt follows him inside. Jaskier notices he limps a little and wonders how many injuries Geralt has accumulated over the years they’ve been apart, in addition to the scar on his face and whatever happened to his leg. It pains him to think about.

If he didn’t feel so tense, he would make a joke about the absurdity of having a real sitting room now, like a respectable person. As it is, he waits until Geralt sits down on the sofa before choosing the armchair across from him. He doesn’t feel like squeezing his bulk into the space left by the remaining cushion. Geralt’s eyes follow him across the room, but he doesn’t comment on his choice to sit farther away.

“You look like you’re doing well. Your letters—it sounds like you’re happy here.”

“I am. It’s wonderful, teaching the same students throughout their time at the Academy. And I still have time to write.” His work, at least, is a safe subject. He can talk about this.

Geralt nods, his eyes closing briefly. “I’m glad.”

“Me too. I miss being with you, of course, but being here...it’s even more rewarding than I imagined.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth turns up, though his eyes seem sad, or perhaps just tired. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited.”

“It’s all right, Geralt. I understand. You needed to be with Ciri.” Jaskier hopes that his expression isn’t masking disappointment at the way he looks these days. “She must be a young woman now.”

“She is. She’s—incredible, Jaskier, you’d like her.”

He smiles. “They grow up so fast.”

“Yes. But it has been a long time.”

“Six years.”

“I…” Geralt breaks off, searching for words. “Whenever I got your letters, I wished I could be here. I wanted to pick up where we left off.”

Jaskier feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. He looks down so that Geralt won’t be able to see the tears that spring to his eyes.

Wanted. Past tense. Clearly Geralt is trying, in his blunt and uneasy way, to tell him that he feels differently now. Now that he’s seen Jaskier. Or maybe it has nothing to do with his appearance. Witchers are hardly known for settling down with one person. Moving on is just how they operate. He knows this.

“Jaskier, I—”

Through his lashes, he can see Geralt leaning forward, staring down at his clasped hands.

“I _want_ to pick up where we left off. If that’s what you still want.”

Jaskier is too shaken to respond. He’s afraid he’s misunderstood Geralt, that he’s reading too much of what he wants onto the situation. Part of him is simply stunned that Geralt managed to state his desires out loud.

Geralt retreats, mistaking his silence for rejection. “It’s all right if things have changed for you. If you’ve...found someone else. I didn’t expect you to wait for me.”

This is more than Jaskier has ever heard Geralt say at once about his own feelings, the contents of his words aside.

“I want that, too,” he hears himself say. “I want to pick up where we left off.”

He hears Geralt exhale, a long, relieved breath.

“You jumped when I kissed you. I thought maybe—”

“Geralt, no. My feelings haven’t changed. It’s just—” he sighs and forces himself to keep talking, “—I know I look different than when you last saw me. Pretty substantially different. And I have a pretty good idea of how you feel about that.”

When he looks up, Geralt’s eyes are narrowed in bewilderment.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Geralt.” Jaskier stands so the witcher can see his body from every angle, just in case there was any confusion. “I know what I look like. I know you probably think I’ve let myself go. I’ve heard all the jokes already, I promise you. And you’ve never had much respect for any man who’s let himself get too fat to even sit astride a horse. I’ve heard the comments you make in taverns sometimes. And I get it. You’re a witcher; you have to be in perfect shape, always, and for you that means having the body of a minor god. Your life depends on it. I just—I don’t want to hear about it. Believe me, I’m aware.”

He risks a glance at Geralt and sees that he’s paled a shade even lighter than usual, his mouth pressed in a tight line.

“I’ve made you feel like I wouldn’t love you like this. The way you look now.”

Geralt phrases it as a question, but his voice makes it a statement. Jaskier can’t meet his eyes.

“Yes.”

Geralt stands and takes the few steps towards him, stopping just within arm’s reach. He doesn’t touch him.

“Jaskier, I should never have said those things. I never wanted to make you feel that way. It was cruel of me.”

Jaskier swallows, determined to keep his emotions under control. “Thank you. But you understand that the things you say about people like me affect me, right?”

“I know. I was wrong, Jas.” He shakes his head. “You were right, actually, just now. I was afraid of being unable to do my job as a witcher. I took it out on others.”

“But now you suddenly know better?”

Geralt grimaces. “About a year after we separated I was injured quite badly. I’d never have been able to walk or hold a sword again if not for the dryads of Brokilon. As it is—well. I’ve had to rethink a lot of things.”

Jaskier looks up to his eyes, suddenly understanding. “Your leg.”

Geralt nods. He breathes out, a little shakily. “I’m sorry for all the things I said, Jaskier. If I can make it up to you, I will.”

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. He feels far too exposed under Geralt’s gaze, his face too round, his stomach absurdly prominent and straining the seams of his chemise. He’s certain that he’s sweating and, even worse, that Geralt can probably smell it.

“I forgive you,” he mutters. “But you don’t have to pretend to find me attractive when I’m not your type. I’d prefer you didn’t, actually.”

Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s hips, gently but insistently turning him to face him straight on. His fingers sink into the soft flesh at Jaskier’s sides, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“I’m not pretending, Jaskier. I couldn’t not find you attractive.”

He sighs. “Geralt—”

“Jaskier, look at me. When other people look at me, they only ever see a monster. A mutant freak. You don’t. You never have.”

“That’s not the same. You can’t compare your sexy glowing eyes to my—”

“You’re right. Every bit of you is natural, while I was created by magic.” He pulls him closer, flattening his whole torso against the curve of Jaskier’s round stomach. “It’s your body, Jaskier. I love it, and I love you—all of you.”

Jaskier hides his face in Geralt’s shoulder again, sure that he’s blushing fiercely. He’s only heard Geralt say _I love you_ a handful of times. Right now, it feels like too much.

He runs his hands over Geralt’s back, distracting himself by tracing the thick scars he can feel even through the fabric of his shirt. He’s dreamed about this so often, holding Geralt again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? Your letters never mentioned it.”

Geralt sighs. “I didn’t want to talk about it. For a long time after I could barely stay awake long enough to write a letter, anyway. Then I was too afraid to admit I might not ever heal completely. I felt like writing about it would make it real.” He laughs, though with a tinge of bitterness. “Not that it helped. It turned out to be real anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“Don’t be.” His breath is warm against Jaskier’s ear. “Anyway, I’m not completely incapacitated.”

Geralt’s hands leave his sides as he takes a step back, and Jaskier lifts his head, thinking the moment between them must be over. Then he feels his feet suddenly leave the ground.

“Wha—Gods! Geralt! Put me down!”

Geralt has swept his legs out from under him and is holding him in his arms, bridal-style. He looks at him and smirks, not straining in the slightest to carry Jaskier’s weight. Gods, Jaskier had forgotten how ferociously strong he is. But this is mad, even for him. Geralt might be solid muscle, and, yes, he’s usually wearing fairly heavy armor, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jaskier now has at least a hundred and fifty pounds on him—maybe even as much as twice as weight. Sheer physics should make this impossible.

Geralt’s eyes glow with amusement. “You thought I couldn’t do it, didn’t you?”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Impossible.” There’s not a hint of exertion in his voice, the bastard. “Which way is your room?”

“Down the hall,” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s chest.

Geralt carries him easily to the bed and lowers him gently, leaning over him with hands braced on either side of his chest. Even flat on his back, Jaskier’s stomach swells upwards from his chest, blocking his view of his lower half. He can’t see but can feel that his shirt has ridden up, and he tries to tug it back down unobtrusively.

Before he can, Geralt swings his leg over to straddle him at his widest point. He leans forward to kiss him, one hand on the side of his face, one hand catching Jaskier’s fingers before he can readjust his clothing. His body, the lower half of his belly especially, is a mess of stretch marks both old and fresh, a testament to the speed with which he swelled to his current proportions. He wouldn’t be so embarrassed by them – Geralt has plenty of his own scars, after all – except that the mass of dark red ones standing out against his pale skin show just how much he’s managed to put on even very recently. It would be one thing if his weight had plateaued after a couple of years. Instead, he’s only gotten bigger, rounder, and heavier at the same rate as before.

“You’re as lovely as I remembered,” Geralt breathes into his mouth.

 _Fuck it_ , Jaskier thinks. If Geralt’s going to keep this up, he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth. Embarrassment is the death of good performance, after all, and he intends to perform. He kisses Geralt back, hard, putting his hand on the back of his neck to bring him even closer.

Geralt smiles into the kiss, sensing the change in Jaskier’s mood. He’s never been one for talking much during sex, but his low growl of appreciation is all the encouragement Jaskier needs to thrust his hips upward, grinding against Geralt’s pelvis. Immediately, Geralt is all over him, working his hands under his back, caressing the rolls of fat on Jaskier’s ribs, worrying at his softened jaw with his teeth.

Jaskier groans and digs his fingers into Geralt’s shoulders. He’s delighted by Geralt, delighted to be touched again after so long by someone who knows him so well. When they’d parted six years ago, it had been with the understanding that each of them might seek out other partners in the meantime, and Jaskier had indeed had plenty of sex in the interim, though nothing that had lasted very long. There had been no one who knew how to drive him just as wild as Geralt does, even after so long apart.

He whines in protest when Geralt shifts and sits up a little, but the witcher only moves from straddling his hips to working his way between Jaskier’s legs, trailing a line of kisses down his throat and chest by way of reassurance. Jaskier tangles his hand in Geralt’s hair, freeing it of the leather band that ties it back from his face. Geralt _hmms_ contentedly, eyes drifting closed as he stretches out on top of him. He looks happy for once, Jaskier thinks, the lines of worry and tension finally disappearing from his face.

Geralt’s hands are in constant motion, caressing and relearning every curve and swell of Jaskier’s body. As he kisses him, he pushes Jaskier’s shirt up higher, revealing even more of his plump form. After a moment, Geralt sits up to let Jaskier catch his breath and places his hand on the crest of his stomach, pressing gently against the soft rolls of fat. Jaskier pushes his belly out and grins with satisfaction when Geralt’s pupils widen noticeably. He props himself up on his elbows, making his round middle stick out even further, and tilts his head up for another kiss. Immediately, Geralt indulges him, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s underbelly.

“I missed you so much,” Jaskier gasps. He loves having Geralt’s full weight on top of him, even though it’s almost too much and makes it difficult to catch his breath. Then again, Geralt could easily make him breathless long before he put on all this weight.

“I missed you, too.” Geralt moves his hand to cup Jaskier’s face, staring down at him with eyes full of hunger. “I missed this. Seeing you.” He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s. “Being with you.”

As he kisses him, he works one hand under Jaskier’s thigh, coaxing him to lift it higher. Jaskier obligingly hooks his leg up and over Geralt’s hip. The feeling of Geralt’s hipbone sharp beneath his thigh is delicious.

To his alarm, Geralt rolls suddenly onto his back, pulling Jaskier along with him. Jaskier barely has time to catch himself on his hands before his full weight crashes into Geralt. Surprised and unused to holding himself up like this, he only just manages to keep his elbows locked. Instantly, all his doubts and insecurities come rushing back.

“Fuck. Geralt, are you sure—?”

“It’s fine. I can handle you.” He grins, reaching for Jaskier’s hips and pulling him closer. “More than handle.”

Jaskier discovered a long time ago how much Geralt likes being underneath him when they have sex, but things have changed since they last did this. He doesn’t like the way his belly hangs down now, spilling over both sides of Geralt’s torso. He fears he’s going to crush him or break one of his ribs or something. And he’d like to see Geralt without his own massive gut in the way.

“Hey.” Geralt reaches up, putting his hand to the side of Jaskier’s face. “You’re not going to hurt me. I’d tell you if it was too much. I swear.”

“Yeah. I know. I just—” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Geralt. There’s simply no good ending to this particular situation. Either he hurts Geralt inadvertently, or Geralt admits that Jaskier’s gotten too fat to do this. Either would be mortifying.

Embarrassed, Jaskier climbs off of Geralt and retreats to the other side of the bed, curling up and covering his face with his hand so he doesn’t have to look at him. He hears Geralt sit up.

“Wait. Jaskier. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Why is he always like this, so desperate to be adored in every possible way by everyone around him? So eager, especially, for Geralt’s approval and admiration? And even when he receives it, he’s suspicious of it, sure it will vanish in an instant. How pathetic.

“Should I leave?” Geralt shifts, preparing to get up. “I can go in the other room if you want to be alone.”

Jaskier shakes his head. He knows it’s irrational, that he’s being stupid, but he fears that if Geralt leaves he won’t come back. That he’ll come to his senses and disappear again. And who knows what Jaskier will look like in another six years.

Geralt’s voice is low, gentle, but too much.

“What was it that upset you? Am I going too fast?”

“It wasn’t you,” Jaskier repeats. “I’m just—” He sighs. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Geralt’s apology. It isn’t even that he finds himself all that unattractive. It’s just humiliating to look and feel so different and to be reminded of that by the contrast of his body with Geralt’s. Especially when Geralt is as strong and as stunning as always, despite the years and his injury.

Geralt shifts again, moving closer to him. Cautiously, he puts his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him in towards his chest. Jaskier lets him, feeling silly for how much nothing more than the touch of Geralt’s hand on his arm reassures him. The ardor of their initial reunion has all cooled off with Jaskier’s embarrassment, but Geralt’s embrace is no less warm for it. He holds Jaskier gently but securely, as he always used to when they made camp together on the Path. As though nothing about his feelings had changed. As though he still found Jaskier desirable, yes, but also valuable, intelligent, worthy of his friendship. Worthy of love.

Geralt has always been better at apologizing with actions than with words. He may not know what to say to sooth Jaskier’s insecurities, but the gentle pressure of his arms says everything he can’t articulate. He presses his forehead to the side of Jaskier’s head, his breath warm on Jaskier’s skin.

“I missed you. I’ve imagined seeing you again for so long. But—I can move more slowly. If that’s what you want.”

“No.” Instinctively, Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s arm. “No, I’ve missed you too. It’s been too long. I don’t want to move slowly.”

“What do you want, then?”

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. “I want—I want to be certain that I’ll never be too much for you. That you’ll love me no matter what.”

“I will. I swear it.”

“I’m not just talking about my weight.”

“I know.”

“I—thank you, Geralt. Really. But you can’t guarantee that.”

Geralt sits back just enough to be able to see Jaskier’s face. He brushes the hair from Jaskier’s eyes, his touch gentle and feather-light.

“You’re right that I cannot prove to you what the future will be like. But I can tell you that I mean this as much as I mean anything. You’re as much a part of my life as Ciri is. Nothing changes that.”

“‘I cannot prove to you what the future will be like…’” Jaskier repeats. The words are familiar, and they sound unlike Geralt’s typical blunt gruffness. “You’ve been reading my poetry?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches. “I told you I missed you.”

Jaskier can feel himself flushing. He leans back into Geralt’s chest, feeling warmer and safer than he has in years.

Geralt _hmm_ s in response and skims his fingers across Jaskier’s back and shoulders. “Jaskier, I love you.”

Jaskier puts his hand over Geralt’s other arm, the one resting on the lower half of his stomach. “I love you too. I can’t believe you read my poetry.”

“Mm. It made me feel close to you.”

“So you’ll stop reading it now that you have me in arm’s reach?”

Geralt snorts. “We’ll see.” He kisses Jaskier’s temple to make it clear that he’s teasing.

Jaskier sighs, finally relaxing fully against him. After another long moment, he taps his finger on the back of Geralt’s hand.

“All right, lie down. Let’s try this again.”


End file.
